The Highwayman (Rakes and Rogues of the Restoration Book 3) (10 page)

~

One week later, Arabella went shopping at the Royal Exchange. The colonnaded building with its many shops surrounding an open courtyard, was not only a place to purchase fashionable accessories and luxury goods—it was a place to see and be seen. There were some curious glances at her retinue, which besides Caroline included two exceedingly muscular footman and the burly, bald-headed, aptly named Mr. Butcher, whose mouth revealed a fine gold tooth behind a pirate’s grin. Besides that though, other than for a few solicitous comments regarding her health, she was greeted as if she had never left.

No one questioned where she had been or what she had been doing, and she never once had to resort to her carefully rehearsed story of sickness and fever and an ailing friend.

It was surprising how simple it was to slip outside the stream of daily life, and back in again with no one the wiser. If her hasty departure from London had sparked any notice, it had been quickly forgotten in the mad whirl of gossip and intrigue that was the lifeblood of the city. Under other circumstances, it might have been humbling to realize she was naught but a little fish, only suitable for speculation and discussion on a very dull day. As it was, the discovery came as a relief.

It helped that Robert had not returned to London on her heels. She had passed her first days back in a panic, preparing for a battle that never took place. Mr. Butcher, Mr. Fitch and Mr. Hopkins all carried pistols, and one of them was always guarding the front door, but he had yet to show his face. Mr. Butcher promised her that as an ex-soldier and reformed highway cruiser who had spied on wealthy travelers for men like Jack, he would know of Robert’s coming and deal with any threat.

A brave woman faced her fears and stared them down. With its open courtyard, protective walls and busy crowd, the Exchange was just the place to begin. No crowd of kidnapping ruffians were likely to come barreling around the corner here....

‘As most I converse with knows both the ffreedom and Easyness I speak and write as well as my deffect in all, so they will not expect exactness or politeness in this book, tho' such Embellishments might have adorned the descriptions and suited the nicer taste.’

“My lady? My lady?”

“Yes, what is it?” Arabella’s tone was sharper than she intended. Her heart knocked hard against her chest but she took several deep breaths and regained her composure quicker than she would have the day before. She’d been lost in reverie—about
him
of course. Her thoughts turned to the highwayman far too often, and she’d no idea how long Caroline had been tugging at her sleeve. She caught Mr. Butcher eyeing her carefully, but when she met his gaze he turned back to scan the milling crowd.

How can I be so jittery one moment and lose myself so completely the next?
Perhaps because she’d had an adventure that would make the boldest of her acquaintances faint dead away, and a part of her yearned to do it again.
At least her brusque response hadn’t troubled her maid.

“Look over there, my lady. It’s a chapman. You’ve been saying as there’s nothing exciting to read.”

“And you are suggesting I start reading chapbooks?”

“Well the broadsheets are very interesting, too.”

“What would your father think of you reading broadsheets and chapbooks, Caroline? Aren’t they full of lurid tales of criminals and their doings?”

“Oh yes! And highwaymen too, my lady.”

Since when is a highwayman not a criminal? Thieving rogues the lot of them!
There was no denying they were popular heroes, though. Perhaps because they preyed on the wealthy and gave interviews, fine speeches, autographs and kisses, and went to the gallows laughing and joking, dressed in their finest when they they hanged. No one but the victims and authorities seemed to object when some duke or earl was robbed upon the heath. Why just two months past, some cheeky scoundrel posted notices on the doors of several rich Londoners telling them not to leave home without a watch and ten guineas as toll, and the whole town had howled with laughter.

As the sort of person they preyed on, Arabella didn’t find it the least bit funny. Indeed, she was quite certain she would have reported her own highwayman if he hadn’t gone to so much trouble to come to her aid.

“My dad read chapbooks to us all the time, my lady,” Caroline said. “Along with the Bible, of course. He says both are good for the soul. He called them….” Her brow wrinkled, then cleared, “a salutary lesson! For no matter how dashing or chivalrous or bold their adventures, they always came to a very bad end. Oh, you should hear him someday, ma’am! He has a wonderful voice. Nobody ever falls asleep at his sermons, and when he reads from the chapbooks it’s almost as if you are there.”

It hadn’t escaped Arabella’s notice that the whole time Caroline had been chattering, she had also been skillfully guiding her closer and closer to dapper little man with a professorial air standing on a corner surrounded by boxes of pocket-sized books. Such fellows travelled the country plying their trade, but it was not the sort of fare she was accustomed to. The Exchange had book stores aplenty. When she’d first moved to her townhouse, it was here she’d stocked her library with books on philosophy and science, estate and household management, classical poetry, and books by Cervantes, Ben Johnson, Shakespeare and Donne.

But the chapbooks were where one found stories of chivalry and romance, guides to fortune-telling, magic, and bawdy tales. It was also where one found thrilling biographies of the most notorious criminals in the land. Targeted mainly to people of lesser means and education, they cost only tuppence or threepence a book.

“Do you think we might look, my lady? I hear there’s a new one about the famous highwayman, Swiftnicks.”

“What? Swift Nick?” The name sent her pulse pounding. For a moment she could feel his arms wrapped around her holding her close, and his warm breath caressing her ear. She brushed the thought of him away with the back of her hand, as if he were really there. Of course there would be stories about him. Even she had heard his name before she met him, and she had never read a broadsheet or chapbook in her life. She could attest he was no hero. A hero helped a woman without helping himself to her kisses and jewels.

“Aye, your ladyship. They say he’s ever so dashing and has met King Charlie himself.”

“How nice for him.” Arabella caught Mr. Butcher watching her curiously, and blushing, she turned away.

“Can we stop and take a look, ma’am?”

“If it means you’ll stop pestering me, Caroline, we can take a few moments before we leave for home. Though if you have money to spare on such nonsense, I fear I am paying you too much.”

Caroline hurried over to a makeshift stall with Arabella following sedately behind. There was a busy crowd gathered about it comprised mainly of apprentices, footmen, and lady’s maids. The girl elbowed her way through less determined shoppers, while Mr. Butcher did much the same to make a place for Arabella. There were several titles extolling the deeds and adventures of the highwayman Swift Nick, and at least two others about ‘The Gallant Knight of the Northern Highway,’ Gentleman Jack.

Somewhat embarrassed at the thought of being seen purchasing such vulgar fare, Arabella looked around her, making sure she wasn’t observed before scooping up several chapbooks about well-known highwayman, in particular those titles that mentioned Jack and Swift Nick. Mr. Butcher winked at her but she ignored him, though she didn’t object when he took them from her hands and made the purchase for her. She insisted on carrying them herself, however, on the trip home.

It felt as if she were holding a piece of him in her hands. She was certain she knew more about him in some ways than any of the people who had read about him did. Such as the fact that Gentleman Jack and Swift Nick were one and the same.

That thought gave her pause. By taking her necklace he had shown her he was not to be trusted. Yet
he
had trusted
her
with a secret that could cost him his life. It was both a gift and a burden. What would she do if his actions brought serious harm to another? It didn’t seem likely, given the way he had helped her, but she had known him for barely a day. The chapbooks were full of stories about him and his adventures. She had never paid any attention to them in the past, but surely some of the stories must be true. It seemed important she learn everything she could about him, and what better place to start than learning what other people knew?

That evening Arabella discovered that she and Caroline shared an affinity for daring escapades, tales of murder and thievery, and stories of spirits, devil beasts, and highwaymen that wandered the English countryside late at night. Jack’s exploits were legendary, and so numerous it was no wonder he needed two personas to carry them out. Apparently, she had been in the clutches of one of England’s most admired and colorful villains. Tales abounded of his daring, handsome appearance, and his gallantry as he robbed coaches, flirted with the ladies, and gave generously to the poor.

Lounging by the fire with a glass of wine, she put one of her own books down and listened skeptically as Caroline eagerly read a passage from her own book about the recently retired Swift Nick.

“It says right here, my lady, ‘In bravery as in gallantry he knew no rival, and he plundered with so elegant a style, that only a churlish victim could resent the extortion. For every man he had a quip, for every woman a compliment.’”

Arabella had no doubt the last part was true. Her snort of derision went unnoticed.

A fascinated Caroline continued her recitation. “‘In all of his exploits he was tender to the fair sex, and bountiful to the poor.’ Oh,
my
lady! Can you imagine how exciting it would be to encounter him on the road?”

“To encounter such a sensitive and discerning robber would be remarkable indeed.”

“You think I’m foolish, don’t you?” Caroline sighed and laid down her book. “I suppose you’re right. It’s nothing more than storytelling. They make him better than he is so as to sell more books. He is probably ugly and mean-tempered and beats all his women.”

“Does he have many women? Where did you read that?” Arabella barely managed to keep a sudden spark of alarm from her voice.

“I’ve not seen or heard any mention of it, my lady. It’s just a guess. Women seem to like highwaymen––mean and ugly or not.”

“I daresay he
is
quite
handsome, Caroline. And doubtless he can be gallant too. But I would hardly call stealing a lady’s necklace an act of tenderness. That was my point. Who knows what sentimental value such a thing might hold?” Her fingers crept to her throat, feeling for the lost remembrance of her mother. That unconscious act stirred a visceral memory of his fingers, cool against her skin as he traced her neck and collarbone with a feather-light touch. She shivered, then sighed, and then she tossed back her wine and went to flop down on her bed.

“I am feeling very tired. Perhaps we can read more tomorrow.”

That night it wasn’t Robert who chased her through her dreams

~

Still trapped in the role of invalid, Arabella began taking walks to aid in her supposed recovery. She also continued to read about Jack, sending Caroline after London’s chapmen in search of every book about him she could find. The more she read, the more her fascination grew. It was clear her unlikely rescuer had a penchant for bold action and physical daring that went well beyond that of his peers. There were even landmarks named after him.

The townsfolk of Pontefract proudly pointed visitors to a place along a steep and narrow gorge known as Nevison’s Leap. The claim was that he jumped the gorge at that very spot, making a spectacular escape from the constables pursuing him. Having ridden with him on his black mare as they soared over fences, ditches, and downed trees simply for the joy of it, she could well believe it was true.

The adventure she’d learned he was most famous for, however, was an epic ride from Kent to York just over two years ago which had earned him the sobriquet Swift Nick. Told and retold in chapbooks and illustrated broadsheets, the details remained essentially the same. He robbed a man in Kent on an early summer morning and being unmasked by his victim, rode the two hundred and twenty miles to York in sixteen hours, arriving in time to change his clothes, lay a wager with the Lord Mayor, and challenge him to a game of bowls on the green.

When the charge of robbery was brought against him, he produced the Lord Mayor as witness that he was in York at eight that evening and the jury acquitted him, believing it impossible for a man to be at two places so far apart on the same day. It was a remarkable feat to be sure. One that earned him a pardon, a nickname, and a private interview with a fascinated king. No doubt Bess deserved most of the credit, but the story added credence to the claims that he respected life, if not property, and was careful to avoid using violence against his prey. It was a tremendous relief. She could not keep his secret otherwise.

His tendency to leave witnesses rather than murder them had seen him arrested several times, though he seemed as adept at escaping prison and transportation as he had been at fooling the court. It appeared he’d been neither bragging nor joking when he told her his skill at climbing was useful for escaping from jail. She flushed to remember that conversation—his breath warm against her ear, the fluttering sensation she’d never felt before, his body pressed close against her in so many intimate places—her breasts...her bare skin ...her thighs….

She put down the book she’d been reading and jumped to her feet, filled with a restless energy that had been growing for days. Reading about Jack and his adventures made her hungry for things she didn’t fully understand. Something had happened to her as they galloped over the moors. After all that had occurred over recent weeks she should have been happy safe at home—locked inside her sturdy house with stalwart men guarding her door. But she was lonely and bored. It was no longer enough to live vicariously through the adventures of others. Instead of reading about other people’s adventures, she wanted to write of her own.